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- Character Biography
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From a wide balcony, high above the vast city, Erën's eyes cast out over his home. The looming dark persisted, denying them the day, casting them under a veil of rolling black and grey, and quiet lightning. But still the Light persisted below, fueled by the fire in the hearts of the righteous. Sharyrdaes remained; a beacon in the long night.
But their song had grown quiet...
He moved away from the balcony, stepped back under the tall ceilings of his chamber. A fire burned within beneath a grand mantle, above which hung the trophies of a storied warrior. And near there, set in display - a gift born of his return home - a newly forged suit of armour. No small gift for he and his, and something he admired with a solemn reverence.
He stepped away, and moved to the pedestal nearby where a newly forged sword of steel and blue crystal lay - another gift.
He picked up the sword, and marvelled at it for a time. Rinvië had worked with added diligence to craft these replacements for him, an honour not lightly bestowed. He could only hope to live up to what was expected.
When he'd left here, the conflicts of old had long gone cold, but their scars remained untended, left to fester. The plague of it had worn them, diminished them. Like he, his kind had grown too proud to ask for help. He was made proud again to return and find that like he, they too had learned. None can stand against the dark tide alone.
He set the sword back down and stepped back out onto the balcony. And there, as he looked down upon all that remained of his kind, he listened to their song. No longer did they sing of desperate faith, but of the faith in their friendships, the grasping of their outstretched hand.
They sang of victory.
But their song had grown quiet...
| "I must go," he said, "there is something that I alone must do." For he and his ilk, the return home after so long demanded tradition. It was a faithful act, a common ritual, but for him he almost felt fear. Uncertainty for sure, for there were so few like him who had suffered the affliction of the song's loss for so long. And none, that he knew of, that had been pulled from the whole by external design. He wondered what it might mean... |
He moved away from the balcony, stepped back under the tall ceilings of his chamber. A fire burned within beneath a grand mantle, above which hung the trophies of a storied warrior. And near there, set in display - a gift born of his return home - a newly forged suit of armour. No small gift for he and his, and something he admired with a solemn reverence.
He stepped away, and moved to the pedestal nearby where a newly forged sword of steel and blue crystal lay - another gift.
| Through the vast city, he followed a clear path. As he passed by those others who dwelt here, some stopped to look upon him. Likely they felt shock to see him, and to hear not the song of his mind as his people did. To see him here in their presence, but to feel him so far off. And likely, too, as he had come to know, shock that he still lives and breaths. He had been thought dead. And he, too, felt this distance. Out there in the world, out there with Caliane, it had been easier to bear. But here, like this, so blatantly before him. He felt alone. |
He picked up the sword, and marvelled at it for a time. Rinvië had worked with added diligence to craft these replacements for him, an honour not lightly bestowed. He could only hope to live up to what was expected.
| Nothing in this city was new to him. There was no need to marvel at the beauty, the grandeur. Save for this. Stepping into the chamber, deep within the great Temple, its presence enveloped him as it always had. He looked upon the Shorai with marvel and reverence, each time like the first, stayed in place for a moment as whatever presence it was that existed within it comforted him. Even in the quiet of it. He found himself alone with it, as though it had willed all others to be parted from its presence in this time. He stepped nearer to it at last, and with expectancy in his heart he reached to it. His hand touched upon it... |
When he'd left here, the conflicts of old had long gone cold, but their scars remained untended, left to fester. The plague of it had worn them, diminished them. Like he, his kind had grown too proud to ask for help. He was made proud again to return and find that like he, they too had learned. None can stand against the dark tide alone.
He set the sword back down and stepped back out onto the balcony. And there, as he looked down upon all that remained of his kind, he listened to their song. No longer did they sing of desperate faith, but of the faith in their friendships, the grasping of their outstretched hand.
They sang of victory.
